


hello:goodbye

by velvetcrowbars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: I give up, M/M, apologies in advance, basically this is an au where vball is not involved, how does one tag, i can't write happy, is this a cliche yet or, its not happy, iwa is an artist, oikawa is a model
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcrowbars/pseuds/velvetcrowbars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>a collection and messy timeline of a lot of almosts, should-have-beens, maybes, and always between two of the unlikeliest people</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	hello:goodbye

The first and last time Iwaizumi sees Tooru Oikawa are exactly the same. Bare back with lean and taut muscles, chocolate colored hair falling at the nape of his neck. A freckle on his left shoulder blade, a pink scar near the bottom of his spine. Back dimples and barely visible ribs accented by faint goosebumps.

The first time Iwaizumi sees him (first year art introduction class, university, it was raining), the word that comes to mind is: imperfect.

The last time he sees him (2 years later in september, his apartment, not a cloud in the sky) the imperfection remains but what also surfaces is: fragile.

He had seen the other around campus a few times since the beginning of the semester, usually surrounded by a group of plastic looking girls or equally as handsome boys who all wore the same polo shirt in different colors.

Iwaizumi knew there were going to be a nude model in class that day. He had spent all the previous night preparing, wore the most inconspicuous looking pants possible, and had mastered the art of hiding his entire face with his sketchpad. He should have been ready for this, he was ready for this. And yet when he saw such an imperfectly perfect back, his stomach still nearly came out of his throat.

Oikawa had his robe only half off, exposing his entire upper body. He wasn't especially built with his still boy-like chest and prominent hip bones.

The first time Iwaizumi would touch him there (hesitantly, someone else’s bed, 3 am, drunk) he thought his heart might burst out of his chest.

The last time (gently, his own bed, midnight, sober as hell) he could barely feel his heartbeat at all.

The first time they met, Oikawa turned around and smirked.

The last time, he shut the door without looking back.

 

* * *

“So Iwa-chan, what is it that you want?”

“Want?”

The coffee shop they sat at was popular for students in winter. It was their fourth (or was it fifth?) date, the point where the idle small talk finally dwindled away and was replaced by real conversation. The feeling of pressure for first impressions was gone, given way to something similar to familiarity and intimacy.

“Want. For yourself in the future.”

“Success, I guess.”

The shop was Oikawa’s suggestion. Him in his striped designer scarf and knit sweater fit right in perfectly with the warm lighting and swirling steam that rose from their drinks sitting side by side (a macchiato and coffee with cream but no sugar, respectively).

“That’s it?”

“A family maybe, I guess.”

Their knees bumped lightly under the table, and Iwaizumi couldn't decide whether he liked it or not. He had never been this close to anyone before, the feeling of closeness was one that was going to take some getting used to.

“Do you only guess about everything?” There was that smirk again. Something about that smirk always made Iwaizumi slightly uneasy. A warning sign: “keep out, DANGER, trespassing”, a feeling that he couldn't exactly put a finger on.

“Of course not stupid, I just don't totally understand your question.”

Oikawa fiddled with his macchiato, twirling the cup slightly in its saucer and keeping his gaze focused on the table.

“Closure. Finality.”

He didn't wait for Iwaizumi to say anything before continuing:

“I've never liked the idea of forever. So that’s what I want: an ending.”

Maybe the confusion was showing on his face or maybe the atmosphere was getting too heavy, but when Oikawa looked back up at him after what felt like forever, he smiled, almond eyes turning into little half moons.

“Seems kind of pointless to me. Everything ends y’know.” Iwaizumi finally forced out, fingering the edge of his beanie to pull it down lower. Meeting the other’s gaze, he felt a laugh rising in his throat. The grin had turned into an expression of shock; eyes wide and hair falling forward, like Iwaizumi had just revealed one of the secrets of the universe.

“I know that! Doesn't mean I can’t want it though…”

“No one’s stopping you.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. He picked up his coffee trying to hide it but it was too late.

“Then stop laughing at me!” Oikawa scooted his face closer, eyebrows drawn together in frustration. Iwaizumi took a sip of his coffee.

“I'm not laughing, stupid Oikawa.”

The first time he visited that shop (january, in his favorite jacket, they held hands) the coffee was terrible but it didn't matter.

The last time (august, his shirt felt too warm, alone) the coffee was still terrible, and he wondered why he ever went in the first place.

 

* * *

Iwaizumi never knew how kissing was supposed to work. It wasn't something that was taught in school or in prep classes so how then was Oikawa so damn good at it? It was not the first time he would wonder this and it was also not the first time Iwaizumi would never get the chance to ask. It was difficult to ask questions when the lights were all out in the hallway and there was a tongue exploring your mouth.

It was almost always hot and explicit with Oikawa, all or nothing in that sort of sense. Sometimes when he came up for air it felt wrong, like it wasn't air that he needed to breathe anymore but Oikawa himself.

There was never an absence of fingers and hands threading through his hair, exploring under his shirt or stroking his neck. Everything was electrified and his nerve endings felt frayed and overworked. In the end his lips felt swollen and abused, pinpricks of pain along his throat and collar bones already blossoming into colors of purple and pink. Iwaizumi knew he was intoxicated; intoxicated with a single person’s existence and the very fact that they seemed to want him as much as he wanted them.

It was annoying. Amazing, but annoying.

 

* * *

Iwaizumi’s apartment was always messy. Piles of blank and used canvases, paintbrushes and broken pencils, empty boxes of Chinese food and crushed energy drink cans were all among the usual. No matter how much he tried to clean up, everything would always end up in places it didn't belong. He got that feeling of something out of place as he watched Oikawa, spread out on the floor among stacks of fashion magazine, opened textbooks and empty hot chocolate mugs.

“I would appreciate it if you could do that somewhere else.”

“But Iwa-chan your floor is so much more comfortable than mine. You don't want me ruining my back at such a young age, right?” Came the response along with the sound of a flipped page and something scribbled down on paper.

Iwaizumi just settled deeper into the couch (the half of it that wasn't covered in shirts from the drycleaner), turning his attention to his own open textbook (chemistry) on his lap. He had only gotten 3 or 4 problems done before hearing a certain someone stir on the floor near his feet.

“Oikawa?” He said without looking up. Nothing. Glancing down he could see the swirl on the top of the other’s head, leaning up against the side of the couch with a pencil poised over an already full page of notes. Shifting down a slightly Iwaizumi could see the steady and deep rise and fall of his chest. Setting his hand tentatively on the other’s shoulder he shook him gently.

“Oikawa.” he repeated, a little louder. No response.

 _Stupid, the idiot’s dead asleep._  

Sighing more in annoyance than anything else, Iwaizumi set his textbook down in the bit of spare space left on the cramped couch, navigating his feet around the almost non-existent path on the floor. Carefully, he stooped down and slide his arms under Oikawa’s shoulders and knees. Struggling (not as much as he thought he would), he managed to stand back up and make his way around the things strewn across the floor to his room.

It wasn't out of kindness or charity that he let Oikawa sleep in his bed for the remainder of the day. If the other caught a cold or woke up with a crick in his neck Iwaizumi _knew_ he would never hear the end of it. Of course that was the only reason he would tuck him in and, almost subconsciously, move back his bangs to kiss his forehead before turning the lights off and shutting the door behind him.

Of course that was the only reason.

 

* * *

The only sound was that of their breathing, unsynced and erratic, but together at the same time. The room was so dark that he had a hard time making out Oikawa’s face among the mess of white sheets, arm fallen over his face and smelling of stale cologne and sex, and he was glad for it (but not really).

This was not the first time. It was a different kind of first. A first that Iwaizumi never thought he would have.

He never thought he would know how it felt to have his lungs ripped out of his chest just with a single look. How whenever someone touched him, let alone that someone be Tooru Oikawa, it would burn like a cigarette against his skin. How it felt to not need gravity anymore, simply because now he was there to keep him tethered to the ground.

 _This is not love_ , as he felt short fingernails drag paths across his back and grasp onto his hips with sweaty palms. This is not love, his teeth and tongue traveling from lips to neck, clavicle to ribcage, hip bone to inner thigh. Feverish hands dragged through his hair, a pair of legs tangled in his own. _T his is not love._  


“Hajime-”

Something hot pooling in his abdomen, a heat that felt like a fever or a fresh sunburn rising inside him. _Not love_. Arms around his neck and the smallest of moans directly in his ear. _Not love._ Twisted sheets and strained kisses held on the cusp of control, foreheads pressed together and a want, a primal need, for something neither could say out loud. It felt like his bones were being torn apart and thrown back together all at once.

“T-Tooru-”

 _Definitely not love._ Each pulling the other closer, Iwaizumi could feel hot breath on his face and could see tears glistening in those endless ocean eyes. _This can't be love._

“I love you” squeezed between breathy moans and whimpers, fervent touches and sloppy kisses.

_It just couldn’t be love._

In the end, with Oikawa nuzzled into his chest and substances he would rather not think about smeared in between them, his euphoria turned into exhaustion.

_Well…maybe._

This time, Iwaizumi can only wonder.

The last time, he realizes it was.

 

* * *

Doing laundry always ended up being more stressful than originally planned. Especially when there are double the people and hence double the clothes to wash and dry. There’s always some decent amount of confusion and more than a decent amount of swearing. Partially because Oikawa was never taught how to do his own laundry and partially because he was just an idiot. Not that it really mattered at that point anyway. It seemed that no matter how many times Iwaizumi told him not to put any colors in with the whites, some red sock or sweater would slip in there and both would be left wondering how much light pink they could wear until it was unacceptable.

“Can you just…go get the next load. Please.” They were the only words he could get out without letting his frustration explode. For one of the few times, Oikawa didn't say anything, instead opting to leave the room and find the next pile of clothes buried among the mess that had become their apartment (both had a bad habit of not cleaning up anything). Iwaizumi leaned up against the washing machine, shutting his eyes and  taking a few deep breaths. This was taking a long time. Too long a time.

It wasn’t until he heard a low gasp from the hallway that he opened his eyes again and peeked around the doorway.

Oikawa was crouched on the floor, holding a slightly crumpled piece of large paper, his eyes glued to the page.

“Iwa-chan, is this me?”

Something dropped in the pit of his stomach. Oikawa turned the page towards him, head tilted and eyes mischievous. He almost cringed. Almost.

“Where did you even find that?”

“In an old notebook under this pile of dirty clothes. Is that really all I mean to you?”

“Cut it out.”

Oikawa chuckled, turning the old sketch back to face him.

“This was the first time we met.”

Iwaizumi could feel the heat in his face now, and felt the need to get away as soon as possible. “Aren’t you a genius.” he muttered turning back to the other room.

“I can’t believe you kept it…”

The words were barely there. Maybe he hadn't heard them at all.

_Of course I kept it, idiot._

“Not that it does me any justice though.”

“Do you want to get punched?”

He could almost feel Oikawa grinning from through the wall.

 

* * *

“Quit moving or I'm gonna smack you, dumbass.”

Light flooded through the windows, the kind that can only be found during the early hours of the morning when the world is still sleepy.

“So mean~”

“Shut up. I mean it.”

Iwaizumi always kept a spare blank sketchbook at his bedside table. Sometimes when the urge would strike he’d draw anything he could find. The scenery outside, the half-wilted potted plant by the door, a pile of unwashed clothes. But when he had woken up in the early minutes of the morning and seen a figure curled up into a half buttoned shirt gazing out the window as the sun rose, bedhead and bare feet barely touching the floor, the need was overwhelming.

Oikawa of course loved the attention. It wouldn't be the first time the sudden compulsion to draw him would strike, and every time it did there was a point to be made and rubbed in Iwaizumi’s face usually along the lines of “not being able to resist him”. Not matter how many times he had a sharp remark to make in response, what Oikawa said was never a lie. But like Iwaizumi would ever admit it in a thousand years.

Flitting the pencil across the page, Oikawa began to slowly took shape on the blank piece of paper. Crumpled white shirt (no doubt not his own) with the sleeves reaching past his wrists, collar halfway popped, ankles crossed and legs hanging off the side of the bed. His normally dark brown hair highlighted by the sunlight as it slowly filtered in, adding streaks of auburn and gold. The light leaving half his face still in shadow, the faint mark of a hickey turning purple peeking out from the upturned shirt collar.

Iwaizumi had never thought of Oikawa as especially beautiful. Beautiful was a word reserved for things that took your breath away. Remarkable, amazing things that left the viewer in awe.

He had never thought of him as beautiful and yet it was the only word he could find that would fit in that very moment. Beautiful. Oikawa was beautiful. This was the first time he had thought that (and it would not be the last).

“Hey, Iwa-chan,”

“Hm?” He didn't look up from the sketch, focusing on the flip and shadow of Oikawa’s hair across his face.

“Thanks.”

Iwaizumi tore his gaze from the page, feeling the warmth already on his face.

“Huh? For what?”  

Oikawa turned his head slightly, eyes still dancing and hazy with the early rays of the sunrise.

“Because when you're here, forever doesn't seem so scary anymore.”

If humans were capable of spontaneous combustion, Iwaizumi probably would have exploded on the spot.

 

* * *

 

When it ends, there is no big finale. No final hurray or dramatic break up scene. It simply ends. “A clean break” is what some people might’ve called it ( but it wasn’t).

He didn't know when he started to fall out of love. Remembering it more, he probably never did. Actually not probably, it was a definitely.

_“Everything ends, y’know? You’re the one who said that Iwa-chan.”_

He didn't know when things had started to fall apart. When the space between them went from nothing to a thousand miles while they slept side by side.

_“We want different things don’t we? We both said so a long time ago.”_

There was no single pinpoint of destruction, no countdown to give a warning. Maybe they had been a grenade this whole time, waiting for something to pull the pin and blow up all they had built around each other. Maybe that was the fun of it all, watching it burn.

_“Just promise me one thing.”_

They both packed their things, deciding to leave the apartment they had shared as ground zero, a place neither wanted to return to anymore.

_“Don’t regret it. Please.”_

They made love on a bed without sheets and a room where all traces of their existence had been wiped clean.

_“Don't regret me, Hajime.”_

Oikawa was the first to leave with his bare back (dimples and all), which Iwaizumi knew like the back of his own hand, the final thing he saw.

He let the silence wrap around him. For the first time in 2 years, his world had gone completely silent. He had never knew quiet could hurt so much.

As the years passed, he often asked himself the question: Do I regret Tooru Oikawa?

And every time he asked, the answer never changed:

_Like I ever could, dumbass._

****  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> wow thank you to anyone who actually read this almost 3,000 piece of whatever this is. there isn't even a plot and just anyone who read this entire thing here you get a cookie because you are beautiful.  
> (i haven't written anything in months so very sorry if this is rough and lots of typos!!!)  
> but no really THANK YOU

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [scarred polaroids](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989905) by [iwaoidk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwaoidk/pseuds/iwaoidk)
  * [almost, maybe, would-have-been](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658767) by [rosecoloredvoice (Cookidomo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cookidomo/pseuds/rosecoloredvoice)




End file.
